


Lighthouse Keeper

by OBLVN



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cute Ending, Dream is the lighthouse keeper, Fate & Destiny, First Meeting, Fluff, George is looking for the lighthouse from his stories, I speedran again, Lighthouse, Lighthouse Keeper, M/M, No Smut, Old Diaries, This is my favorite fic yet, implied soulmates, old stories, photo album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBLVN/pseuds/OBLVN
Summary: Storybooks that have been passed down through generations of George's family describe a place so utterly serene and comforting, that George feels an immediate connection to it, and becomes determined to find it. When his search finally ends in the dead of night, and he comes face to face with the lighthouse, he understands he is not the only one connected to it in that love-filled, soul-warming way. He meets Dream, the lighthouse keeper, who provides him clarity about his storybooks, and shows him things he has never seen before. Linked through the past, they meld in the present, and bridge into the future.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 124





	Lighthouse Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to publish this as a Valentine's Day gift but I couldn't physically type any faster than I was doing, so it's a little belated, but it's the thought that counts
> 
> Dream and George have stated they are fine with shipping, but if they ever change their mind, I will gladly take this down
> 
> This is my favorite thing I've ever written, and I hope you get to feel what I felt while writing this <3  
> Also, I listened to Lighthouse Keeper by Sam Smith about a hundred times in the span of 4 days while writing this  
> Enjoy! :)

Through the deepest, innermost hours of the night, there is still a glimpse of light to catch, somehow, somewhere. He knows it should be around here, the source of illumination standing out against the navy blue of the celestial vault, stars dotting freckled across the blanket of darkness. Though it’s not extensively documented across the internet, George has read about the lighthouse in books passed down through his family, after which the curious attraction towards it has never left him.

Dry branches, fallen off of unkept bushes, snap softly below his shoes, part of the scarce collection of sounds to be heard near the desolate seashore. Thorny twigs sticking from scattered bushes catch his coat, pulling out loops of thread when he tugs it away from the sharpness. He keeps his camera clutched tightly in his hands, pointer finger tracing every button from which the little icons have faded from boundless use. The strap dangles mindlessly from the sides of the device, hitting his knee with every step he takes further to where he knows he should be able to find the beacon.

Where dirt meets sand, and the trail of old, abandoned fern leaves ends, the sound of small waves coming home to the sea below fills George’s ears with such gentleness, it could probably lull him to sleep if he let his eyes close for even a moment. He would, if that’s what brought him here. It’s far from his true incentive to come, though.

His eyes have gotten long used to the lack of light by now, the trek through the overgrown forest surrounding the patch of unaffected beach hadn’t been lengthy enough to exhaust him (hardly close to, even), but it had been sufficient in getting him familiar with the dark. Once his heels dig into the sand though, its usefulness becomes redundant.

It had been ages, since he had seen something that was so out-of-worldly alluring that he wanted the image to be imprinted into his brain to forever look at, but there it is; the tall, white-stoned tower stands proud by the waterfront, casting its beam across the water, excess light spilling across the surrounding area. George feels his breath catch in his throat for a second, in one magical fraction of a moment understanding the way with which the author of his family books romanticized the building. It was everything he had described to him, and then some.

He contemplates for a moment, does he want to disturb the tranquility of the scene? Is he even allowed to? Can he even _look_ at it? It sure _feels_ illegal, stepping foot on the most tangible piece of heaven he had ever seen. But he reminds himself, _this is what you came here for, isn’t it?_

Breathlessly, thoughtlessly, he presses the button to turn on his camera, and lifts it to his face for his eye to be positioned behind the little window built inside the casing. The small dots on the plastic used to provide more grip, but the bumps have all flattened out over time from how George’s hands encompassed them.

One click of the button, and the image is translated from his simple mind to a screen for him to look at until his eyes can’t keep themselves open any longer.

The sand conforms easily to his shoes as he walk around, cautiously getting closer and closer to the building as he moves along, almost afraid the stones will start speaking and tell him to back off. He continues capturing every angle his mind decides provides a sense of comfort, the memory card rapidly filling up with photographs George is sure he will all print out and hang across his apartment. It’s nothing close to actually being here, but it’s the best alternative.

Details become clearer the closer he gets, adding _even more_ to the enchanting nature of the structure. The coat of white paint has started wearing off, and George imagines it must be from the wind blowing sand against it, too hard, for too long. He can’t stop himself from reaching out, letting his fingertips delicately glide across, allowing for the magic to seep into him the same way sunshine warms up skin on a summer’s day. It’s bliss, it’s familiarity, and it’s warmth, all bundled up and moving from brick to skin, through veins carrying it all across his body, ending at his heart. It’s where he should be.

“Hello?”

_Or maybe it’s not where he should be._

The unexpected, unfamiliar voice startles George out of his trance immediately, a sense of vulnerability quickly coating his entire existence. Attentively, he turns around, his hand dropping from the curved wall while his other holds onto his camera protectively, slender fingers acting as a shield over the lens. He’s met with the silhouette of a man who stands a couple of meters away from him, hands on his hips as he seems to study George thoroughly.

“Hello,” George answers simply, deciding he might be best off if he attempts to turn… whatever _this_ is, into the most ordinary situation the human mind is capable of imagining.

“Who told you about this place?” The man asks. George’s brain seems to fill itself up with the sound of dial-up internet, letting the unexpected question settle in. He thought the man would ask something along the lines of ‘who are you?’, or ‘what are you doing here?’, but this feels immensely more personal.

As George lacks in response, the man takes a step forward, his silhouette now turning into an actual person with distinguishable features. A pair of -seemingly- kind eyes scans him curiously. George doesn’t detect any hostility he initially was worried for, instead simple interest with a hint of surprise lacing his expression.

“I uh… I read about it, in some old family-kept books,” George tells him, slightly confusing himself with his own honesty. The man’s face seems to light up however, joy expressing through the smallest lift of the corners of his mouth, which makes George feel like he probably doesn’t need to regret his truthful answer.

“You did?” He asks incredulously, dropping his hands from his hips as his wide eyes meet George’s in the little light that falls over them.

“Yeah?” George answers hesitantly. “But, you are…?”

“Oh!” The other exclaims. His smile grows wider at the question, and George can make out the way the skin around his eyes crinkles with it. “I live here, I’m the lighthouse keeper,” he explains, gesturing towards the tower, looking at it with the same adoration George assumes must have been in his own eyes when he first saw it. Something about the man’s presence just makes him seem to fit in perfectly, his aura nearly as enchanting as the lighthouse itself.

“You _live_ here,” George states, rather than asks, eyebrows risen in disbelief.

“Yep! Come on in,” he answers as he walks towards the door, nestled between the bricks of the room that extends at the base of the lighthouse. Though ‘ _stranger danger_ ’ quietly repeats itself somewhere in the back of his mind, George follows, stepping into a tiny two by two hallway, lit by one single lantern hanging from the ceiling. Another two doors stand across from each other at either side of him.

“Wait here, I’ll turn off the light so you can see upstairs,” the tall man says with a bright smile, before disappearing through the door at George’s right hand side. All there’s left to hear is an electric buzz and the occasional soft clank of metal. It strikes him once more, _you don’t know this guy, and you are in his home._ It screams ‘ _bad idea’._ He doesn’t leave, though.

Another metallic noise sounds from inside the lighthouse, the lantern flickers a few times, and then the buzzing gradually dies down until George is enveloped in silence again. The man returns from the room he went into and gestures for George to enter on the other side. There’s still traces of suspicion laced between his thoughts, but he opens the door nevertheless.

The room he guardedly steps into is round, barely lit up by a few more lanterns that carry close resemblance to the one that hangs in the corridor he just left. The small amount of furniture there is, is worn down from what appears to be tens of years of use, and apart from two small windows opposite of each other, the walls are bare, the same red-brownish color George noted the outside to be where the paint had faded. A staircase with bulky, stone steps is pressed to the curved wall, spiraling upwards to where George assumes must be the light room. His fingers absentmindedly play with the buttons on his camera as he lets his eyes pass over every detail, and he feels the gaze of the other stuck to the back of his head.

“You don’t know me, why are you letting me into your home?” George decides to ask as he turns around, meeting the eyes of the stranger. He tilts his head slightly sideways and seems to think for a moment.

“Good point,” he says, before stretching out his arm and offering George his hand, who looks at it for a solid few seconds before cocking his eyebrow and looking up into the man’s eyes. “Tell me your name and then I’ll know you,” he explains, nodding towards his hand. George lets his eyebrow drop into a slight frown before he relaxes his features in acceptance and takes the hand.

“George,” he says as their hands move up and down in a tender motion, almost like the serenity of the room would break apart in shards of glass and fall to the floor if they shook too hard.

“Alright, _George_ ,” the name falls out of his mouth like it belongs there, and George suddenly remembers why he entered the building in the first place. “I’m Dream, and now we know each other,” he smiles, before without a word, they mutually agree to lose their grip and let their hands drop back down. The man, or _Dream,_ takes a step closer to him and gestures towards the stairs, placing an encouraging hand at the small of his back. In any other scenario, George would have ran away faster than the speed of light, but by great, inexplicable exception, he follows Dream’s directions.

The steps of the stairs are a little too far apart to climb them fast, instead demanding for George to put all the muscles in his legs to work to get to the top of them. A quick glance down shows him the center on the room at the bottom, a round table standing perfectly in the middle with an empty vase on top of the worn wood. All the elements of the place, from small dents in the bricks to the heavy stone steps of the stairs, tie together so harmoniously that George would think it’s been done on purpose.

“The view is better down that door,” Dream muses from just below him. The sound of his voice bounces off the walls to echo slightly through the confined space, and George lets it wash into his ears like a sweet melody. He looks down at his joyful face, and can’t resist the urge to smile as well, before he turns back to the top of the stairs, where he’s met with another wooden door.

It creaks as it opens, but the acknowledgement of the sound quickly ebbs away from George’s mind when he’s struck with the beauty of the view before him. Mesmerized, he takes another few steps forward until he’s stood in front of the glass panel, mouth dropped open ever so slightly in awe. The sea stretches as far as his eyes will allow him to see, the water swaying gently, wavelets catching the light of the moon and the stars and reflecting it back into the atmosphere. Nearer to the lighthouse itself, there’s a small rocky cliff that indicates the edge of the land, tall grass springing up around where there appears to have been a path towards the slope.

“Pretty neat, huh?” Dream says as he joins George at his side, leaning down on the broad railing that’s most likely been installed to keep people from getting too close to the glass.

“Yeah,” George breathes out, turning his head to look sideways, more towards the forested area he came from. He recognizes the spot where the lighthouse first came into view and lets the memory warm him up from the inside. “Is that, like, allowed? Turning the light off?” George asks as he looks back to Dream, who is already smiling up at him. _That smile,_ it looks like nothing could ever wipe it off of his face, even if the universe used all of its efforts to make an attempt at it.

“Not a lot of boats pass by here anymore,” Dream explains, his fingers running along the railing where red paint flakes off and falls to the floor. “It used to be busier, like, decades ago, when this lighthouse was built, but nobody has been here for years,” he continues. His eyelids fall down a little, as if he’s daydreaming while his gaze mingles with George’s. “I keep it on most of the time though, just in case visitors like yourself happen to stroll by.”

“How long has it been? Since you’ve had a visitor?” George asks in response, and Dream puffs out his cheeks in thought, frowning, before he lets the air escape through a small crevice between his lips. He lets the last of his prolonged exhale escape in a sigh as he looks over the water.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a visitor, actually,” he says lightly, and something pulls on George’s heart strings at the thought of him being all alone in here, all the time. “But there’s a reason for that.”  
  
“What’s the reason?” George questions, and that same, lovely smile returns to Dream’s face as his gaze switches back to him.

“This place is a secret,” he answers mischievously, like he’s a toddler hiding from their parents in a blanket fort. George raises his eyebrows at the statement and exhales a laugh, one hand finding the railing to lean upon. Fatigue spreads through his ankles and feet slowly, and he wonders momentarily how much time has passed since he got here.

“How is it a secret?” George smiles as his nails pick at the flaky paint.

“Have you tried looking up information about this place?” Dream asks.

“Yeah, but there was little to nothing to read up on, except for those books,” George says. Dream’s smile grows wider at the mention of the books and he nods, as if he’s confirming something inside his head. As if _George_ is confirming something for him.

“Those books of yours, they’re diaries,” Dream tells him, turning for his body to face the lightless bulb, resting on the railing in a half-sit. George moves the camera from one hand to the other, still fidgeting with the strap hanging from it as he thinks Dream’s words over a couple of times.

“Diaries? How would you know?” George asks in return.

“I have some too, from my great-great-great— no, wait,” he says, frowning. He looks at his fingers as he counts, nodding as he tries to get it right. A rather amusing sight, in George’s opinion. “My great-great-grandfather, he wrote diaries too,” he settles on, looking over at George’s grinning face. “What’s funny?” Dream laughs as he quirks his eyebrows.

“Nothing, you trying to count was just entertaining,” George answers, grinning wider as Dream scoffs lightheartedly and shakes his head.

“Whatever,” he chuckles, flicking his finger at George’s arm in the smallest form of protest known to man. “Anyway, my great-great-grandfather was also a lighthouse keeper, and this was the place where he and his… friend, would meet in secret,” Dream starts explaining. He seems to reminisce as he talks about the things he must have read for himself. _Endearing,_ George thinks.

“His friend?” He asks. Dream shrugs, looking over the scuffed wooden planks of the floor, traces still visible where people have walked and stood the most. “My books described them a little bit differently,” he teases in hopes for Dream to elaborate, and his demeanor seems to tenderize.

“Love interest? I don’t know, my books were pretty vague about that part,” Dream says, looking over George again with dreamy eyes. He’s thought about it, George can tell. He can also tell Dream finds comfort in the confirmation.

“Something along those lines, yeah,” George answers. “But you’re thinking that… ‘friend’ was _my_ great-great-grandfather then?” He asks, keeping a light mock to the word ‘friend’. He takes his hand off the railing to find it specked with bits of red.

“Possibly, yeah,” Dream says, looking over George again, scanning his face once more before his eyes seem to light up with an idea. He pushes himself up quickly and strides towards the door. “Wait here one second, I thought of something,” he says excitedly before he disappears down the stairs. It’s a little strange, _the man himself_ is a little strange, but George finds it oddly, comfortingly fitting. The whole charm of the desolate seashore, the lonely lighthouse that no boat passes by anymore, but still waits ever so patiently for a visitor, it suits him. Even the dust that’s settled around the large lamp inside seems to be completely in place.

George turns to look out the windows. The whole wall is made of the same glass panels, allowing for a view from all sides. He has already decided he likes this spot best, though. A slightly bigger wave than the ones that came before it crashes down against the cliffside, flinging droplets towards the grass and the building, before retreating again and falling back into its normally calm manner.

Footsteps make their way up the stairs again, and beside him appears Dream, with a what looks to be heavy book in his hands. Affected by time and its environment, the cover has gathered creases and stains, color faded and page corners folded. He lays it down on the railing, and when he opens it up, George’s eyes grow wide with wonder as the brownish photographs appear. With the scarce moonlight shining down on them it’s hard to make out what’s on the pictures, but it becomes clearer when George bows down to look closer. Dream follows his example, hovering slightly over a part of his back. George decides he doesn’t mind.

“That’s my great-great-grandfather,” Dream says, pointing at a man on the left side of the picture, smiling just as brightly as he had been doing since George got there. He must have been around the same age as Dream is now, because their resemblance is striking. Maybe their hair looks different, Dream’s being a tad more disheveled, and the shape of his face doesn’t match exactly, but George can definitely tell they’re related. The joy their eyes display is identical to one another.

“So that must be mine,” George says softly, close to a whisper, even.

“You look alike,” Dream says, and George turns his head sideways to where Dream’s is hovering next to him. In such close proximity to each other, both can identify the dimmed color of the eyes looking back in earnest interest.

“You think so?” George asks, and he’s pleasantly met with the joy again.

“Definitely, look,” Dream answers as he points at the picture. “Your jaw and cheekbones are, like, the exact same,” he explains. “Your eyes, too. Just the nose and hair are different.” Somewhere deep inside, George wants to make a cocky remark, mess with him a little, but he can’t. The moment is far too… intimate? Unique? Something along those lines, to be ruined with jokes. He is holding this fraction of time close, he lets it seep into his bloodstream, he lets it settle into his brain. Dream leaning slightly over him, arm hovering in front of him as they look over the book together, it feels so close to an actual embrace. An embrace he had missed, even though he never knew it was there to be missed in the first place.

“Yeah,” George whispers. “It feels like I’m looking at a picture of us, it’s strange,” he mutters.

“Mm-hm,” Dream hums. He sighs deeply, and George feels the air move past his head, breezing through his hair. “I’ve looked over these pictures hundreds of times, and… I don’t know, I just— it’s weird,” he says, and George senses him gravitating even further to his bent frame.

“Go ahead, you can say it,” he encourages. Dream waits for a few seconds, presumably to gather his thoughts before he decides this is the safe and desired moment to release them, becoming exposed, and susceptible to judgment. They must have been brewing inside his head for forever, George imagines it must feel odd to say them out loud to someone else after all that time.

“I was just hoping so hard that someone had that other diary, and that they would decide to come look for this place,” Dream explains. “And suddenly, _you_ come along.” He seems to get stuck on a thought as he shifts on his feet, shuffling them nervously. With concerned eyes, he takes in the photograph once again, before observing the side of George’s face. “This might be a strange question, and you don’t have to say yes, but can I just… hug you? For a moment?” He asks. The fragility of the question, the uncertainty brought to light by the pause in his sentence strikes George in the heart. He doesn’t think twice before answering.

“Yes, yeah, totally,” he says, realizing he may have sounded a little too eager. The thought is shoved to the back of his mind promptly when he lifts himself to stand straight, sight focussed on Dream. His expression has changed from utter joy to something… warmer, more domestic, maybe. It sparks a feeling of belonging, a sense of home and welcomeness. He’s welcomed, with opened arms.

As Dream appears to hesitate still, George initiates, stepping closer to wrap his arms around the man’s chest. The last of his contemplation falls away from him instantly, completing the unknowingly yearned for embrace. Mutual contentment settles fondly around them.

The only thing going through George’s mind is this moment, and this moment alone. He has read about the lighthouse, he has dreamt about the lighthouse, he has written about the lighthouse, he even tried to draw it from the book’s descriptions, and it all falls to nothing in comparison to _this_. He is not the only one, tied to the lighthouse, having it consume his days. He feels fingers gently brushing through his hair, a cheek pressed to the upper side of his head, and another hand absentmindedly curling its fingers over his coat. His eyes fall shut and he sighs deeply, carefully rubbing his free hand between the stranger’s shoulder blades, camera still clutched in the other.

He drinks it in, he engraves his mind by summing up every detail about this that he could never bear forgetting about. He plants an image from above of the sea gently swaying in the dark, he tries to save the sound of silence that will only let itself be broken by the breaths of another and the sound of water splashing up against the rocks. He attempts to let the smell of salty air and the tall lighthouse keeper burn into his nostrils so he will never forget. Because when he leaves, he knows he won’t return.

It’s unique, too unique to try and recreate at a later time. It’s this, and it should be only this. There should never be a second try, simply because George already knows it would only water this first time down. It would never measure up, and the magic would slowly, painfully flow away from the memory. He wants this magic in his life, so very badly, that he will leave and never come back if it means he will get to cherish it in the way it’s been presented to him: pure, welcoming, and affectionate.

“Were your diaries written like storybooks?” Dream murmurs against his head, preventing George’s train of thought from progressing any further.

“Kind of, I never got out of it that they were _his_ personal experiences,” George answers against his shirt, feeling Dream’s gentle hum rumble through his chest.

“You still figured out this was a real place,” he sighs in something that George assumes to be relief.

“It had to be real, you could kind of… feel the love coming out of the pages, you know?” George tells him, and Dream hums in agreement again. “The descriptions of this place, it just _had_ to have been written by someone who has been here. That was the only certainty I had.”  
  
“How did you manage to figure out where it was?” Dream wonders, letting his fingers play a little more with George’s hair, curling it around before letting it fall back down. He suddenly stills his hand and seems to tense up ever so slightly. “If I’m being too much you can let go, I’m sorry,” he adds guiltily, ready to retract his arms.

“No, no, it’s fine. This is nice,” George answers reassuringly, remaining in place to demonstrate the frankness behind his words. The other relaxes again, his hand moving back into George’s hair. “I gathered old notes at my grandmother’s house, she had a lot of that stuff just lying around,” he starts explaining. “She said my grandfather had told her about a lighthouse too, she gave me some of his old notebooks to do my own research.”

“Your grandfather has visited this place?” Dream asks in fascination.

“I think so, but it was long before he met my grandmother,” George continues. He stops to think for a moment, listening to the heart beating calmly against him, soothing him enough to be able to elaborate. “He was meant to pass on the books to my dad, but he got dementia.”

“Oh, it almost got lost, then,” Dream deduces, tightening his grip just enough to be noticeable to George, nearly fearful, yet ending in ease.

“Almost, yeah,” he answers. “He had a last moment of lucidity before he passed, that’s when he told my grandmother about the books, and mentioned something about the lighthouse.” They both fall into silence for a moment, just breathing, listening, smelling, feeling. “My dad read them, but didn’t feel that special connection as much, so he passed them on to me.”

“And now you’re here,” Dream concludes. George swears he can feel his smile against his hair.

“And now I’m here,” he breathes out, a tiny chuckle, barely noticeable, sneaking between his words. 

“Is that why you brought that camera?” Dream questions, and George nods against his chest.

“I don’t want to forget. My grandfather probably visited this place and forgot, but it’s too… extraordinary, it’s one of a kind, I need to remember this,” George whispers, the camera growing hot and stinging against his palm. “I’d rather not leave at all, I want to stay in the story, but I know that’s not a possibility.”

“Is it not?” Dream asks in response.

“Of course not,” George murmurs. “I have a life, back home, and even if I don’t like it, I should return to it.”

“Why is that?” Dream continues softly. The movement of his fingers against George’s skull is causing sleepiness to smoothly roll over him, breathing deeply, face relaxing.

“I can’t just run from the things I don’t like,” he answers, voice muffled between Dream’s shirt and arm. “That would make me a coward, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Dream answers. “This place is meant to be a hideaway, you know?” George hums softly against him, mostly to let him know he’s still listening, even though his body is starting to grow heavier with each gentle circle that Dream’s hand rubs against his back. “There’s so few people that know this exists, it’s so secret you can just pretend the world outside isn’t even there.” George starts imagining it.

Waves crashing down would be the only sound he hears in the morning, except when it rains. When it rains, he would go up to the light room and sit cross-legged by the window, watching it splatter against the glass. Maybe there would be thunder in the distance, giving a light show of its own, not needing the tower by the shore to brighten the sky. Gusts of wind would ripple through the trees in the distance, until the storm dies down.

When it’s sunny, he would sit by the beach, or swim in the ocean until his limbs get too tired. With a book in his hands, he would let his legs dangle off the cliff.

“This lighthouse has remained inside my family for decades,” Dream says, waking George back up to reality. “It’s passed down through generations, even though it’s not useful anymore. You know why?”

“Why?” George murmurs sleepily.

“It’s a safe place,” he continues softly. “We get the rare chance at living in a way nobody else gets to anymore.” Dream sighs deeply into his hair, holding him impossibly closer. “A privilege, only for the ones who have the diaries.”

All there is to life in that moment, is complete silence and sheer darkness in the lighthouse. Dream is right. Nobody other than them gets this.

“I don’t want this place to become an ordinary escape,” George says quietly. “It’ll become less special with each visit, I don’t want that. It’s once to show me it’s real, or it’s forever to live inside the book, so I should just take my pictures and leave,” he adds, now no more than a whisper.

Every word hurts, every thought more. He knows it, he feels it pressing onto him in dense air, the universe whispers; _he belongs here._ Home is not where he is expected to be, living isn’t going to his job every day to pay the bills, love will never be found lying about on the pavement on his way to the grocery store. All of it, it was built decades ago, set in the stones that form the foundation of the lighthouse. Yet, he can’t have it.

“Why couldn’t it be forever?” Dream whispers back, fingers tracing down George’s spine as delicately as one would handle porcelain. Not out of fear of breaking it, but out of the insurmountable urge to protect it through its fragility, to preserve its beauty.

“This is _your_ home, I can’t barge in here and claim my place simply because I’m selfish,” George answers, causing a short, low hum to squeeze itself through Dream’s throat, more in thought rather than in agreement. The silence isn’t deafening, it’s causing the air inside the room to be filled with yet to be spoken thoughts and feelings.

Strangers, when connected through invisible threads of fate and sighs of the wind passing through one soul to go to the other, can feel so familiar. Arms fitting around one another like the two last puzzle pieces clicked together, seam imperceptible, image complete. No questions needing to be asked, answers already lighting bright inside a beating heart, ablaze with knowing demand.

“What if I ask you to stay?” Dream says quietly, hesitant, making George lift his head from his chest to look up, searching for the sincerity of his words.

“How are you so confident to ask?” George responds as Dream’s gaze can’t seem to settle on just one of his features. Honesty filters through the cobalt of the night, loud enough for a soul to understand, without needing to hear it translated to words.

“I’ve been waiting for you, before I even knew it was going to be you,” Dream answers, words golden through hopes and wishes of the past, patience rewarded. “I’m not trying to sound all… spiritual, I guess would be the word, but you’re supposed to be here as much as I am supposed to be here.” Dream turns his head towards the glass, looking over the endless horizon after dark as his words float down and settle in.

“What if at some point you don’t want me around anymore?” George asks. “What if you get tired of me? You barely even know me.” Dream’s lips curl up again, eyes growing fonder as he looks back down at timid hesitance.

“If you are meant to be here, in the same way I am, I can’t imagine I could get tired of you,” he says, following his hand with his eyes as it passes through George’s hair again. “Do you feel like you _should_ be here?”

“Yes,” George whispers carefully, placing his head back to Dream’s chest. “Pictures were just the best alternative, I’d much rather just… stay here, don’t look back.”

“Then stay,” Dream answers quietly.

“I shouldn’t go back.”

“Then stay.”

“This feels like home.”

“Then stay.”

“You feel like home.”

“Then stay.”

…

“I’ll stay.”

———

_Waves crashing down is the only sound he hears in the morning, except when it rains._

_Cold feet tap on the floor as he strolls over to the spiraling staircase, eyes barely cracked open in fatigue as night makes room for shy sunshine to descend onto the lighthouse. The air inside slowly grows warmer as the day progresses, but for now, it’s chilled near perfection._

_His legs have gotten used to the steps, yet he still never climbs them fast. There is something to taking his time, an expression of gratefulness to be there towards the building. It means more than words when he can treasure the sanctuary and declare it through smaller gestures. Replacing a broken brick, fixing simple cracks in the foundation, repairing the lightbulb when it dies down. It’s more than a voice whispering of gratitude._

_The door creaks familiarly when he opens it up and steps into the light room, the acknowledgement of the sound ebbs away just the same as the view comes to sight._

_The sea never changes. It rises, it falls, it crawls up onto the shore and pulls away again, a never-ending routine of nature’s will that makes Earth’s balance as it is and soothes the mind of whoever stays long enough to recognize its cycle. He spends hours, simply looking. This gentle morning is no different._

_The second set of footsteps and the arms wrapping themselves around his waist from behind are as welcome as can be. It belongs._

_“Hello,” Dream murmurs against his head softly while George’s sigh escapes in content, entangling their hands._

_“Hello,” he answers, feeling a kiss pressed to his hair. He closes his eyes. The sea can wait._

_“My dad dropped off paint, early this morning, so we can redo the outside whenever you feel like it,” Dream says, laying his chin to the top of George’s head._

_“Will it rain later?” George wonders, leaning back into the chest pressed against him._

_“There wasn’t any on the radar,” Dream responds, and a small hum escapes George._

_“Let’s get painting then.” Dream laughs quietly and tightens his grip, swaying the both of them left and right gently._

_Night has gone, peace left in its wake, otherworldly serenity coating their own little fraction of the universe like morning dew gathers on freshly cut grass. The past doesn’t exist. Home is here, the future will confirm as time ticks by in a way that appears unnecessary in touchable paradise. Love is nothing more and nothing less than this, wordless appreciation and two people who know where they belong; in the same place._

_May ever there be a day the lighthouse stops shining, they know love will continue leading the way._

**Author's Note:**

> So anyway, I am tired and I want to live in my own stories
> 
> Follow me on twitter? @_OBLVN :)
> 
> If you liked this, or if you want to say anything else, feel free to leave a comment, shoot me a tweet, shoot me a dm, I appreciate all the love you guys give me <3


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